The Song Of Stone
by carelessdodger
Summary: Well, it began as you might expect. In a castle, there was a witch. Not any old dusty castle, with its empty moat, desolate chambers and dim dungeons. This was a wizarding castle, and that means magic. Vaulted ceilings of night skies, griffins flying, cauldrons bubbling, towers filled with laughter, spells and mischief. Fem!Harry. Durin!Harry. Undecided pairings.
1. Chapter 1

_My dear daughter,_

_I have not been there to tell you about my life. And while I honestly believe my dear friends have told you of it, they may not have told you __all __of it. I will be gone soon darling, and I am not the same witch I once was. I think it is time for you to know what really happened._

_It began, what feels like, long ago. In a land long lost, a creation away and a dream departed, the like of which you will not find in the world today, there was the city of Dale, with its markets known far and wide, full of the bounties of vine and vale. It was peaceful and prosperous, for the city lay before the doors of the greatest kingdom ever known. Erebor. _

_Erebor was a stronghold to Thror, king under the mountain, mightiest of the Dwarven Lords. Thror ruled with utter surety, never doubting his house would endure, for his line lay secure in the lives of his son and his grandson. Oh, Harrin, the beauty of Erebor. It was built deep within the mountain itself; the wonder of this fortress city was nothing short of legendary. Its wealth lay in the earth, in precious gems hewn from rock and in great seams of gold, running like rivers through stone. _

_The skill of the Dwarves was unequalled, fashioning objects of great beauty, out of diamond, emerald, ruby and sapphire. Ever deeper they delved, into the dark. It was there where they found it. The heart of the mountain. The Arkenstone. Thror named it 'The King's Jewel'. He took it as a sign, his right to rule as divinely ordained. All would pay homage to him. Even the great Elven king, Thranduil._

_But the years of peace and plenty were not to last. Slowly, the days turned sour and the watchful nights closed in. Thror's love of gold had grown too fierce. A sickness had begun to grow within him. A sickness of the mind. And where sickness thrives, bad things do follow. _

_They first heard a noise, like a hurricane coming down upon them. The pines on the mountain creaked and cracked in the hot, dry wind. He was a firedrake from the North. Smaug his name, and Smaug did come. Such wanton death was dealt that day, for the city of Men was nothing to Smaug. His eyes were set on another prize. _

_Dragons do so covet gold with a dark and fierce desire. In the end, Erebor was lost. A dragon will guard his plunder for as long as he lives. The Elves too, were there, to witness such momentous loss and death. But Thranduil would not risk the lives of his kin against the wrath of the dragon. No help came from the Elves that day. Nor any day since. _

_Robbed of their homeland, the Dwarves of Erebor wandered the wilderness. A once mighty people brought so low. So, so, so very low. Amongst them was their prince, Thror's grandson. Proud. Strong. Stubborn. He protected his people as best he could, with as little as he had, night and day. The young Dwarven prince took work where he could find it, labouring in the villages of men. Oh, Harrin. He was fierce. He was brave. He was beautiful. He was mine. And he gave me the greatest treasure ever crafted, not with gem or hammer or needle, but by love and flesh. But that is a bit too far ahead, is it not?_

_Yes, my Dwarven prince did what he could. He ran guard, built watches, worked Men cities for extra coin, toiling until he could only collapse into bed at night. But he always remembered the mountain smoke beneath the moon, the trees like torches blazing bright. For he had seen dragon fire in the sky, a city turned to ash and bone. And he never forgave. And he never forgot. _

_That, my dear Harrin, is where I come in. For, quite by chance, with the will for adventure, a dust of magic, and an enchanted painting, fate had decided our lives would become one. It began- _

_Well, it began as you might expect. In a castle, there was a witch. Not any old dusty castle, with its empty moat, desolate chambers and dim dungeons. This was a wizarding castle, and that means magic. Vaulted ceilings of night skies, griffins flying, cauldrons bubbling, towers filled with laughter, spells and mischief. Hogwarts…_

* * *

_**Hermione Granger's P.O.V**_

xXx

"Harrin! Will you get down from there for five bloody minutes!"

Hermione Granger shouted as she stood at the bottom of Gryffindors tower on the soft green grass. She had her hand across her brows, to see through the cheerful spring sun, and her best friend, so high, seemed nothing but a smudge of black against the grey stone. A raven's wing flapping in the wind. Harrin Potter was suspended on the side of a turret, glued to brick by sticking charm, with a great hammer in one hand, a chisel in the other, and her wand safely clenched between her teeth.

"Give me a second!"

Was the gruff reply Hermione got for her efforts, half muffled by the wand crammed into Harrin's mouth. Hermione huffed and dropped her hand, scuffing her boot into the ground as she surveyed the area. Gryffindors tower was still only half built, a jigsaw of granite, marble and stilts. The grounds around them was awash with movement, more stone being levitated to piles designated for building or foundation work, groups huddled as they poured over parchment blueprints, pointing out strengths and weakness's to the new designs, and there was even a little camp off to the side, beer, food and banter being passed freely between those on break.

Yes, the battle of Hogwarts had brought it to near ruin. But, with a little care, creativity, community, and Harrin's sheer willpower, brick by brick, it was being resuscitated back to life. Who knew Harrin had such a passion and gift for architecture? Not Hermione. Not Ron. Not anyone really. Well, apparently McGonagall had the foresight they had all lacked. The wise head teacher had, after all, appointed the young woman with the project of Hogwarts reconstruction. Ostensibly, it was also McGonagall who had to dampen Harrin's fiery passion when it blew too hot. Ravenclaw's tower, the first venture undertaken by Harrin, the turret which had gotten the most damaged during the battle, had been fixed beyond the timescale anyone thought possible. Seemingly, overnight, it had sprang back up. Renewed. Robust. Beautiful… Completely alien.

Under Harrin's own hammer and wand, with others under her direct orders, the once thin, elegant tower had become something else. Foreign. Strange. The design became geometric, sleek, simple but somehow contrarily intricate, with cutting edges, harsh lines and regal corners. The windows great square arches were stunning, but daunting. It became hard to tell where the stones were, where one slab ended and the other began, as the tower became almost water like, coherent and glossy. The top crenulations became imposing, haunting juts of granite that cast their shadows deep and large across the grounds. Gone was the gentle receptions of circular simplicity, replaced by rectangular power, a dare almost, an invitation to _try _and knock this tower down. By the end, it was completely, utterly, conclusively Harrin.

Thinking of the devil, Hermione had just a moment to collect her thoughts as she spotted the raven-haired woman up on the lowest scaffold platform, a streak of ink, as Harrin plucked up a loose rope and swung back down to earth, landing just before Hermione with a resounding thud. Hermione chuckled. Harrin had always been heavy footed, which coupled with her extremely short stature made the whole thing just shy of hilarious.

Still, Harrin Potter was a lot like her tower. Striking, unnerving, and full of sharp, keen lines. As unfamiliar as her stonework. At only four foot three, the eighteen-year-old should, really, be anything but eye-catching. Yet, she was. Her once ridiculed explosion of blue tinged onyx curls was now an envy of many who had once turned their nose up at the very sight, although she normally kept the long locks braided away from her face to dangle down at her waist in a thick plait. She had grown into her squarish-ness, with her broad shoulders, muscled limbs and stocky build being barely lessoned by the curves of womanhood, a tantalizing precarious balance between soft and harsh.

She was strong, incredibly so, for Hermione had saw for herself what the shorter woman's punches and kicks could do, or her favourite, a shoulder ram, which, in Quidditch, had broken many a rib. Her face, once too sharp and angled, became something carven, an effigy to severe vigour, a study in brilliant intensity, only softened by the dusting of taupe freckles that mapped themselves across her pale skin. And her eyes… Merlin, those emerald shards could not be described, not fully, in words. Yes, there was something strange, something other, about Harrin Potter.

Yet, Hermione supposed, that otherness could very well come from her father. For, while Harrin bore James Potters name, none of his blood flowed through her veins. Lily Evans had disappeared right after Hogwarts, the story went, when she was sixteen. Of course, Lily had resurfaced, three years later, when she was nineteen, nearly twenty. She had been hale, hearty, healthy… And heavily pregnant.

James, having grown close to Lily before her disappearance, with the first wizarding war brewing on the horizon, knowing the dangers coming for them all, had offered Harrin, still in the womb, the only protection he could. The protection of his last name. He had hoped, Hermione thought, a bit naively, that with a magical last name, in a war of pureblood mania, little Harrin would be offered defence and exemption.

Instead, James's pseudo adoption of the child had painted a target on her back, and a death sentence on his and Lily's. Sometimes though, Hermione wandered. With Harrin's… Oddities, she could not be the only one to ponder. Was Harrin a half-breed of some kind? Like a Veela? It would explain the brute strength. Why the small woman had not grown since she was eleven. Her keen sight in the night. Perhaps, just maybe, it would also explain why and how Harrin had survived the killing curse not but once, but twice now, with only a lightning bolt scar to show for it.

Then again, had it not been Dumbledore who had told them that Harrin's father was a simple muggle who had been shot in a robbery one night? Hermione scoffed. Yeah, all of them, herself included, had learned to take a pinch of salt along with whatever stories Dumbledore had gifted them. Still, the poor soul was likely dead. Why else would James adopt Harrin or Lily go into hiding without her other half? Sometimes, people just died. It was sad, but it was true.

"Can't you see I'm busy? Not only do I have to build this place, with people who don't even know the right end of a hammer I might add, I now have to follow strict fuckin' blueprints. Blueprints, Hermione! As If I, Harrin, can't tell a portcullis from a gatehouse! The insult!"

Was the rant that broke Hermione out of her trip down memory lane. Unfortunately, it was neither new nor unheard. Harrin had been moaning and complaining, to anyone who would listen, about the recent restrictions placed on her by McGonagall for days. Harrin's temper was never the calmest of seas, and any slight against her pride was a line well crossed. By the none-plussed faces of those wondering around them, this was not the first or only loud spat they had heard from Harrin this week, or likely, this morning.

"I mean, the designs were so perfect before, Hogwarts could never be demolished. Oh, wait, it bloody well had, hadn't it? Nearly crumbled on our fuckin' heads right after the wards fell. It's not like I was doing much! I was only reinforcing the stone in case the wards ever fell again. Merlin forbid someone shows some sort of foresight when it comes to war! How can the council or ministry complain when I'm only adding to the-"

Harrin snarled and raved as she yanked her dragon gloves off, stiffly cramming them into her belt, next to her hammer and chisel. Knowing her friend as she did, Hermione broke in gently.

"Good morning to you too, Harrin."

Harrin's eyes seemed to focus, pinning Hermione to the spot. A sheepish look fluttered across her face momentarily. She meant well, Harrin, she always did, but she sometimes got swept up in the finer details. She eyed Hermione then, and briefly, Hermione wondered if she was just as 'other' to Harrin as she was to them. What was it like growing up not knowing where or who you came from?

"Sorry, Hermione. I'm just…"

Instead of filling in the blank, Harrin waved her hand in front of her face, as if she was wiping away the cobwebs cluttering her mind. She didn't need to fill in much, Hermione understood. They all, her, Ron, Harrin, had felt this way lately. Stagnant. Tight. Boxed in. Hermione dealt with it by throwing herself deeper into her work, Ron by an extra butterbeer, Harrin… Harrin, well, Hermione didn't rightly know how she dealt with it. But there was a shadow underneath her eyes that spoke of sleepless nights, a slump to her broad shoulders, and a snappish sort of doggishness to her. Life post-war, regrettably, was not what any of them thought it would be. Yet, not one to fester on a dim matter, Harrin pushed forth, scratching the tip of her nose with a scarred thumb.

"What brings you to my ends anyway? I thought you were bogged down in the ministry playing parchment rat to the big hats?"

Harrin crossed the distance, up to Hermione's side, barely reaching her ribcage, and began to stroll around the grounds. Hermione glided along, although she kept their patrol tight around the break table. One year on from the greatest war ever fought in wizarding Britain and where were they? What were they? Harrin the builder, Ron the lab-rat for Weasley's wizarding wheezes, and Hermione, the desk jockey. Still, she supposed it was better than being on the run for their lives.

"I was, but I have a special delivery for you given from upon high."

Harrin chuckled and it was such a bright noise. High, lofty, hearty. It was good to hear it, for just a glimmer, to see her dearest friend in high spirits. Burying the uncountable dead, building what was lost, fixing the broken, Harrin, really, even a year later, had not gotten out of the shadow of what Voldemort had taken from her. Yet, ever the hero, she stepped up and did her part, no matter the bruises underneath her eyes, the bent back, or the fatigue. Nevertheless, it had only been a year, and so, hopefully, it would get better soon. Soon.

"From a candidate for Minister of Magic? Don't want it. Send it back."

Oh, Hermione had been since the last time Harrin had told her. Since she had resurrected, defeated the Dark Lord, Harrin had become a symbol. A symbol many new rising people wanted as a promoter. When Shacklebolt stepped down at the end of the war, and the position for Minister of Magic opened up, bribes, presents and outlandish gifts from running candidates had flooded Harrin like a biblical tidal wave.

She sent back every single one, unopened, unused, untouched. If there was one thing Harrin held high, it was her honour. She always had and she always would. You couldn't buy Harrin, couldn't bribe or persuade or tempt, not if she felt it dishonourable or unjust. In that way, she was exactly like the stone she so loved to work with. Unmoveable and unmalleable. Yet, they still tried. Each following gift as outrageous as the next. Harrin only turned her nose up higher, and even publicly lashed out at one or two for their corruption.

"I'd hold back on that order, if I was you."

Harrin's sleek eyes cut towards Hermione, emerald gleaming and shining, almost unearthly, under the bright sun, one eyebrow cocked imperiously high. Coming to a stand back at the half-built wall of Gryffindor's tower, Harrin crossed her arms over her chest and hummed, feet squared, as if she was expecting a fight. Guarded. Shielded. Fortified. Hermione didn't blame her. Harrin never did have a good track record with surprises.

"Okay, you've got my attention."

Hermione nodded.

"The belongings confiscated from Godric's Hollow have been found."

Harrin's face screwed up, lip curling as her arms tightened.

"Things were confiscated from Godric's Hollow?"

Hermione's tone became soft, breezy, tinged with pity.

"It _was_ a crime scene, Harrin."

Harrin's face relaxed and her arms, the muscles, Hermione could see, began to twitch before they dropped from their defensive guard around her, her gaze drifting off over the crowd, up to the sky.

"I suppose it was, wasn't it?"

It felt odd, wrong, to call what happened at Godric's Hollow a crime scene, even if it, technically, had been one at a stage. This was the place her best friend's mother was slain, where Harrin's life had been irrevocably altered, twisted into a tale of abuse, loss and death. Everything bad, every bruise and cut and scar Harrin had ever endured could be traced back to that one place, with one spell, on one night. To call it a crime scene felt shameful in describing exactly what Godric's Hollow is to Harrin. It was her beginning, and sadly, her end. Yet, the ministry had seen it as a simple crime scene, and right now, that was what was important.

"Aurors on the scene took some things they thought looked dodgy or they obtained magical readings from. They got filed away, as normal, but quickly got lost."

Harrin's gaze flicked back to Hermione and her mask was back on tight. The flash of vulnerability and pain long gone, as if it had never been there.

"Until today, it seems?"

It was a wry and dry comment, reminding Hermione of autumn leaves, crunchy and brittle when stepped on, but pretty on the surface. Hermione smiled at Harrin's bite. She knew how to deal with a sardonic Harrin, not so much a pained one. Immediately, guilt washed over her. Harrin had been there for her when she had searched for her parents and came upon nothing but an obituary. Harrin had been there at every single funeral held for those lost in the battle. She visited the orphanages and healing wards weekly, working in the potion labs. She checked in on George every other day, bringing him fresh food and baked goods. She was there for Molly, when she cried and wept over her lost child. She was there for Teddy and Andromeda, taking on nights so Andromeda could sleep, even if Harrin hadn't for a few days. She worked herself to the bone to rebuild Hogwarts. Harrin was there. Every time. Everywhere. For everyone.

But who was there for Harrin? Sure, Hermione and Ron visited when they had time, but even then, the visits were sparse and they usually only talked over work, or grumbled about their own problems. They drank and laughed and relaxed and, not once, Hermione belatedly realised, had they ever asked if she was doing okay. It was just assumed. It was Harrin, after all. The girl who saved wizarding Britain! The girl who lived! The… The girl. The eighteen-year-old girl who was so painfully, obviously worn out and tired. The girl with no family, no home, and no rest. How could Hermione have been so blind?

No more. Hermione swore it. No more. After today, she would… Well, Hermione didn't know what she would do, but do something she would! Harrin had given so much, continued to do so, it was about time they gave something back. Perhaps, with what Hermione had, this could be the first step in that plan.

"Until today."

Hermione said with an air of intensity. And she meant it, on many levels.

"So, what was so important that you had to come all this way to hand it to me personally?"

Hermione beckoned Harrin closer, over to an alcove shaded by the scaffolding. Cautiously, Harrin followed. When the deceptively tiny woman was next to her, Hermione nodded over to the thing she had propped up against the back of the nook. Unhurriedly, Harrin edged towards it, crouching down on her haunches when she was only a hairbreadth away. When she had taken it in, she glanced to Hermione from over her shoulder

"A… Painting? Really?"

There was no ice or fire to her voice, just unfiltered, pure confusion, as Harrin was pulled back towards the painting, almost like she was bewitched, head cocking as she absorbed the brush strokes and oil paint. It seemed to be a scene from a market place, thriving with people. They appeared to be as broad as Harrin, and although amongst brethren, Hermione had the oddest feeling they would be her size too, if they were to leap from paint to life. Their faces were merry, red cheeked and squared, full of thick beards, even the women, which had stalled Hermione when she first saw the painting, and glittering clasps, hair long and braided in intricate weaves and displays. They didn't seem to be a rich people, although their dress was painted in jaunty colours of yellows, blues, greens, golds and reds, the cloth seemed worn in places, poverty peaking out between strokes of bright colours. Cloaked, dressed, they bustled about the wooden stalls as they haggled for toys, food or bolts of cloth. A winding path led off canvas, but at the back of the stalls stood a mountain proud.

Gently, Harrin grasped the oak frame of the painting and lifted it, eyes locked on the mountain. It stood sweeping, strong, stone mixing with sky and fog, bathing it in a blue hue. Hermione noticed the slight tremble in Harrin's hand as it lifted, stout finger coming to the bottom gold plaque to tenderly run across the little engraving. Harrin whispered along with the stroke of fingertip, imprinting, hoarding, taking.

"Ered Luin. The Blue Mountains."

Even as Hermione spoke, Harrin's eyes never left the painting, transfixed by shade and depth, and proud blue mountains.

"It's still giving off high magical readings, but no rune makers, curse breakers, or goblin masters know exactly what kind of magic it is giving off. They know it's harmless. Or, well, they believe it is. It's not reacted in any way to anything. Nothing. Harrin, this was also with it."

Begrudgingly, Harrin dragged herself away from the painting, glancing down to Hermione's outstretched hand. Gently, she laid the painting back against the wall, gingerly taking the thick, yellowed with age, envelope from Hermione's grasp. Deftly, Harrin flipped it over and halted at her name written clearly and starkly on the back. Instantly, Harrin came to the same conclusion Hermione had when she saw the handwriting.

"This was written by my mothers hand."

Wearily, Harrin, eventually, after a long while of simply staring down at the heavy envelope, opened its already torn flaps. The first thing to fall out was a necklace. Harrin bent down to the grass and picked it up, holding it out and high, the sun catching the dazzling silver. It seemed to be a locket of some kind, with a sapphire face, a little lock on the side. On its bejewelled face stood a set of runes, only five, Hermione had never seen before. As strange an alien as Ravenclaw tower, as Harrin.

The ministry had tried to open it countless times and had never succeeded, and yet… Yet, with a single swipe of Harrin's fingers, the locket sprung open. On one side stood a photo, Lily smiling bright and true, from ear to ear, a baby Harrin cradled in her arms. Harrin, even newly born, had a thick head of black curls, almost comically large ears, and yes, she did, after all, have her mothers eyes. On the other side was a simple sketch.

A man's profile, caught in turning to face the artist, smiled back from faun coloured paper. His hair was a mass of charcoal curls, long and unruly, his beard dark and thick but neatly trimmed, silver clasps decorated throughout his mane of raven hair, two braids peaking from coils and curls. The rough hint of white chalk around his shoulder made him look like he was wearing a fur of some kind. Harrin had his smile, small, hardly there, a ghost, but ever so warm. She also had the slant of his eyes, the cheekbones, the dark brow and widows peak and-

The locket snapped shut and Hermione saw the quiver of Harrin's hand becoming unsteady. She was breathing harshly, through her flared nostrils, blinking rapidly and Hermione went to reach for her shoulder, to steady her, but Harrin was in movement, shoving the locket into her breast pocket, close to her heart, tearing into the envelope, pacing as she pulled out the thick wad of parchment and another letter, smaller, untouched by the ministry. Hermione didn't catch a glimpse of the name written on the back, though she did see the splash of ink hinting at one. Back and forth Harrin went, pacing, caged, reading.

"My dear daughter, I have not been there to tell you about my life. And while I honestly believe my dear friends have told you of it, they may not have told you _all_ of it. I will be gone soon darling, and I am not the same witch I once was. I think it is time for you to know what really happened."

Harrin paused and swivelled on Hermione, eyes wide as she shook the letter, as if she could shake free the answers she was seeking.

"She wrote this before she died… How could she… How… What does she mean _what really happened?"_

However, Harrin wasn't speaking to Hermione, not really, not as she quickly delved back into the letter, eyes flicking as she read with speed. Still, Hermione tried to comfort her obviously distressed friend.

"Maybe she wrote it as a contingency? It _was _war. Perhaps she wanted you to have something of her if she did di-... Fall. Written by her own hands, in her own words."

Harrin wasn't listening, she was swiftly skimming through pages, growing motionless, pale. Eventually, she looked to stop completely. No breathing. No movement. No noise. Still like a frozen pond.

"Harrin? Are you okay? You're looking a little peaky there. Harrin? Harrin?"

It was the first and only time Hermione had ever heard Harrin stutter.

"It's… It's a-about m-m-my father."

Hermione winced. Was it a retelling of his death? A story of how Lily met him? Only to have it all dashed in the end?

"Hermione… He's alive. My father… He's alive. He's alive!"

Harrin laughed fully, smile almost cracking her face in two, dimples deep and splendid. It was a kind sort of laughter, a song belonging to a bird, summer rain and lightning wrapped in velvet. It was the sound of Harrin's soul, scorching and somehow, some bloody way, as gentle as a lap of a butterflies wing, vivid. It overflowed her, seeping into the air, pouring into Hermione, so much so, that she had no other choice but to smile and laugh along with her friend.

"That's-… That's brilliant Harrin! Bloody brilliant! We can find-"

The painting behind them shone blue, blinding, and Hermione's smile died on her lips. Harrin didn't even get the chance to turn and face the light before it exploded and sent Hermione sailing backwards, groaning as she skidded in the mud and grass. When the light died, as people rushed around her, unsure of what happened, Hermione scrambled up, blinking away the white-spots in her vision. The painting stood against the stone wall, grey and snapped in two. Broken. There was no locket. No envelope. No letters or notes. Nothing.

Harrin was gone.

* * *

**This fic was inspired by the lovely story, **_**wit and wry, **_**by **_**AlwaysEatTheRude21. **_Of course, before posting, or even writing, I asked permission from the original author if I could do a, well, sort of AU version if it, and gained her permission. Feel free to P.M her, if you wish. (If you're about to use anything from another fic, always make sure to gain the original authors permission, it's only polite and fair.) The beginning bit, the letter, was also inspired by the opening monologue in the Hobbit An Unexpected Journey, and I have borrowed some direct quotes from the movie script for it. However, I'm going to be trying to dodge a retelling of the Hobbit, including having exact conversations replicated, so expect heavy AU's for both the Hobbit and Harry Potter. I really don't want to just be going over things already been written or what we see in the movies, so I'm trying to stay far, far away from that.

This fic will be focusing on the themes identity, family, home and hope. It will be quite a light fic, with tiny amounts of hurt/comfort and angst, but quickly followed with sweet and fluff stuff. It will also be dipping into Dwarven culture quite heavily, real heavily, with a lot filled in by yours truly, so I hope you will come to like what I have imagined. And, finally, as you can likely tell, the line of Durin, Dis, Fili, Kili, Thorin, will be the central focus.

If anyone is interested, I have a Weheartit account, under the same username, carelessdodger, with a collection dedicated to this fic called Harrin. It will likely get larger as this fic does, and is there for anyone to visit if you wish to 😊.

So, what do we think so far?


	2. Chapter 2

_**Kili's P.O.V**_

**xXx**

There was a special room in Irak'Adad Thorin's hearth that Kili and Fili had never entered before. It was out of the way, at the back, facing the winding market stalls, and not once, ever, had the solid oak door been left opened. Obviously, the two boisterous brothers had never really paid it much attention. When visiting their uncle, they were, more often than not, more concerned with his kitchens and pantry, as was proper with growing dwarrow, or with the forge he kept in the lower rooms, where he conducted most of his smithy business. No, that little room with its locked door, up on the highest level of Thorin's abode, right next to his own private chambers, had for many, many years gone unnoticed by the keen-eyed, trouble making brothers. That is, of course, until this very fateful day.

Their Irak'Adad was off in the nearest Man town, plying his trade and wares for far cheaper coin than what it was worth, and was due back that very evening. In preparation for his arrival, their amad, princess Dis, had taken her two sons to Thorin's humble home, just passed the Vale of Thrain in Ered Luin, to prepare him a hot meal and a warm welcome by his family after weeks of toiling in the crowded cities of men. Now, as Dis, their stern but ever-loving mother, laboured over a copper pan of bubbling venison stew, the good kind with plenty of meat, creamy potatoes and freshly baked bread, the brothers did what they did best. Get into trouble.

Exactly who, whether it was Kili's dare, or Fili's humour, which started the contest of seeing who could lock-pick the one room always sealed, well, that would forever remain a mystery. Still, it was no secret when, upon finally hearing the desired _clink_ of the lock spring back, that it was dear Kili's face which lit up from his crouched position, a bent fork in one hand and a needle in the other.

"I told you I could do it! Didn't I tell you! Say it!"

Fili, as was his due, scoffed as he too wiggled his own misshapen knife and a hair pin he had snatched back out of the door lock.

"I believe you mean _I _did it. It was my hair pin-"

"No, it was my needle-"

"I think not! You could not pick a bugger out of your own nose if you-"

"And you could not even put your shirt on the right way this morning, until amad-"

And, it too, would forever stay a mystery on exactly which brother it was, a scowling Kili, or a flushed Fili, who tackled the other first. Neither whose hand it was which scrambled for the handle to find purchase, but the conclusion was all the same. With a weak headlock, and a flinging set of limbs, the oak door swung open and the two wrestling brothers landed with a muted thud just inside the room. The two froze instantly.

Now, every now and again, they would see their uncle enter this very room, though they never saw him leave. Dis normally ushered them home quickly when he retired here, and the one or two times the brothers were caught loitering around the hall, Dis shepherded them along with a scowl and a refute, odd sort of detachment. No one said anything, not a word, and if… _If _Kili or Fili, once or twice, heard what sounded remarkably like a broken sob from the room as their mother led them out and to their own home just down the way, when the few times they had saw their uncle enter the room, then the two young lads had resolutely put it down to an injured animal, the mountains were rife with wild life after all, and no more was said.

They had only meant to see if they _could _unlock the door, not to actually enter through it. Even if nothing was ever said of the room, they inherently knew they should not be in there. Yet, here they were, sprawled on a plush, if a bit dusty, rug, face down and slowly, that ember known as curiosity was beginning to spark within their chests. What exactly was in the room? Why did Thorin keep it locked? Why did their mother wish them not to step foot near it? So many questions, and being the young dwarrow they were, Kili scarcely in his mid-seventies and Fili barely scraping past his eighties, curiosity won out against caution.

Kili, in that split moment of being pressed into woven rug with his brothers arm around his neck, had thought of many things. Gold. Weapons. Perhaps even a spare closet. Nevertheless, as Fili pushed off him and Kili had enough room to breathe and heave himself up off the floor, eyes wide as he scrambled to a stand next to his equally surprise struck brother, what greeted him was the last thing that had crossed his mind in the short time it took him to gaze around the room.

It was a merry chamber indeed, even if it was left in a mild state of disrepair. No. Not disrepair. Not quite. It was if everything had been left exactly where it had been one day and never touched again. Frozen in time, a raindrop crystalized in a snap blizzard. The walls had been carved in the traditional dwarrow style, heavy stone reliefs depicting runes of fortune, strength, health and happiness taking pride at the top four corners, though cobwebs and dust had settled between the curves and cracks. At the far wall stood a proud hearth, bricked and gated, but its fire was out, a cold and blackened mouth yawning into the room.

The red and gold rug on the floor had been expertly woven, once upon a time, but the gold threads had lost their shine, unravelling at corners and coils. There was one sweeping window, leaded with brightly coloured glass, but it too had lost its gloss to age and dust. In one corner was a single chair, a rocker, one very much like Kili's own amad had in her private chambers, but piled on its cushioned seat was straw dolls with painted faces, stuffed toys and patchwork blankets folded and waiting. And there, pushed against the main wall, was a cradle. It was a carven wonder, fashioned from deep walnut, its curved body showed jolly portrayals of dwarrow dancing and running, plush furs lining the inside with the greys and white of wolf pelts. Above the cradles hooded head, sitting unsteady on the wall, a little off balance, was a painting.

Kili did not know what it was about the painting, its vivid hues of blue and green, or the immense towered castle taking centre stage, but it seemed almost magical in its presence. There was no age there, no dust, just bright colours and a serene picture of a castle standing proud on the face of a winding hill. Unwittingly, Kili took a step closer, eyeing up the tallest tower. This close, with his head angled just so, he thought the stonework, against the obvious Man design of the rest of the castle, looked a bit… Well, dwarven.

"You should not be in here."

Kili jumped back from the painting, swerving to face the open doorway. His mother stood at the entry way, trapped between the hall and chamber, as if she dared not step a single toe farther in than she must. Fili spoke up from behind him, just over his left shoulder. He too must have been pulling towards the painting.

"Amad, why does uncle Thorin have a babe's cradle?"

Their mother, who stood dressed in her well cared for blue dress, as was her favourite colour, would not meet their eye. There was a melancholy there, on her lips, a sort of sad twist half hidden by her braided and orange scented oiled beard. Her dark hair, black like her brothers, while pinned and interweaved away from her face in complex plaits and nets, with jaunty little pearls and silver beads dotted through, only seemed to enhance just how ashen she appeared to be. Which was odd on many accounts, Kili thought, as their mother, from yelling to laughing, always housed a healthy flush to her apple cheeks.

"You should not be in here."

Even odder still, she was not yelling or clapping them upside the head, as Kili had thought she would if she ever found them in here, nor dragging them out of the chamber by the scruff of their necks for a good hour-long lecture on propriety. Instead, she just stood there, unfocused gaze drifting down and around the cradle, arms limp at her side, repeating herself. Which was most worrying indeed. Dis never repeated herself. Fili stepped out from behind Kili, over to his side, shoulder to shoulder, as he too had a worried frown shadowing his brow as he regarded his mother. Kili took up where his brother left off.

"Why are there children's toys? And Khuzdul blessings? Amad, what is going on?"

Finally, Dis's gaze became sharp, flittering to her two sons as she outwardly came back to herself. She swiftly glanced behind her shoulder, just a quick scan, before she was back to regarding her sons with an azure eye. Nodding to herself, chin tilting proudly, almost stubbornly, she tottered to the rocker, pulling toy and blanket free to stack at it's side, though her hand stalled on a little straw doll with threaded hair the colour of sunset.

"You were young, but not so young. You must remember Lily, do you not?"

It had been an age and half since Kili had heard that name. So long, in fact, it took him a little while to put name to face, as his mother finally sat in the rocker, gently fingering the flame haired doll.

"Aye, I remember her! She used to sing and make us laugh! She'd pull funny faces at me from behind uncles back when Thorin was trying to scold me. She even fixed Kili's bow for him after he snapped it on his first hunt."

At Fili's sincere laugh, Kili remembered. He remembered bright smiles like stars. Hair the colour of forge fire, and freckles like gold dust, with eyes the colour of emerald. He remembered being picked up, swung around, giggling and laughing. She had been so tall, perching him on her shoulders so he too might feel like a giant. He remembered strange songs hummed and sang as he was tickled or chased. He remembered tender kisses on his scraped knees after a wrong tumble or two down the hill. Of course, he had not known her as Lily, for he had called her Mizi, a shortened name of what his uncle had called her, Mizimelûh. Jewel of Jewels. Kili had always thought it was because of her eyes, those brilliant shards of emeralds. Taking a gander around this strange chamber once more, his stomach knotted. Perhaps it was not for her eyes…

"Aye, she was such a warm soul."

Dis said as she grinned, and there was something there, hidden in her rolling tongue, shrouded and aching, and Fili, always the fastest of the two mentally, picked it up before kili could.

"_Was_?"

Kili frowned as he turned to his brother.

"I thought uncle said she'd gone on a journey? Over to the mountains up north, to find gold and-"

He cut himself off. Now that the words were out, hanging in the air between him and his brother like squirming worms plucked from fresh mud, did Kili realize just how naive and innocent he sounded. He may still be young, but he was not so young anymore to not question the stories of heroes or the validity of fairy tales he once took as sacred oath. Still, he sometimes fell back on innocence, with a sort of blind eye only a child could have.

Kili had been young at the time, younger than he was now, just two seasons shy of his sixties. Yet, he remembered the day Thorin sat him down, he remembered how his mother had sniffled into a hanky, and he remembered thinking of plucking her some daisies from outside, for they always cheered her up, and with her red eyes and running nose, she was obviously under the ills of a nasty cold that had struck her suddenly and harshly and flowers would brighten her day. He remembered thinking his uncle too would soon fall ill, as his own eyes were misty, foggy, and there was a redness to his own nose, and Kili remembered thinking of making sure to pick his uncle some flowers too, should he need a hanky soon enough.

He had been so presupposed by thoughts of flowers and hankies, that when his uncle told him that Mizi had gone to find treasure in the north, just like the games Mizi and Kili would play on sunny days, when mother baked and Thorin worked, that when Thorin promised Mizi would be back eventually, Kili had swallowed it all down. And as the years winded on, as time always did, it meant very little. Five, ten, fifteen years were nothing to a dwarrow, especially when they were on an adventure, finding treasure to bring back, and Kili had simply resigned himself to the promise. Mizi would be back eventually. Only now, in this chamber of frozen memory, looking at his mothers sad, sad smile, did he realize there had been no cold or illness, no treasure in the north, and no return. Quietly, he spoke to his mother.

"She didn't go on an adventure, did she?"

Dis lowered the doll to her lap, shaking her head.

"No, my dear son. No."

Kili tried nobly to gulp down the burning lump in his throat.

"What happened?"

With a kick of her feet, Dis was rocking back and forth and, Kili swore, the tap of the rocker matched his heartbeat.

"Sometimes Kili, no matter how much you wish to stay, no matter how much you love those around you, no matter what, you simply cannot. It is out of your control. Sometimes people go and they cannot come back."

Kili scuffed his boot on the rug, nodding. Those were the exact words his mother had given him when he had asked where his adad had gone and when he was coming back.

"Like adad?"

Certainly, now he knew his father was dead, slain in a bandit ambush in a Man town, as he was protecting a caravan of children being carted to the Blue Mountains, their new home.

"Like your father, yes."

Kili found he could speak no more, though Fili suffered from no such problem. He had always been better at controlling his emotions.

"So, Lily returned to the Stone?"

The rocking chair came to a screeching halt as Dis hummed.

"No, the painting took her."

Fili shook his head until his golden locks swung around his shoulders, gleaming in the low light of the room. In truth, Kili had always been a little jealous of his brothers hair. Their father had the same gold locks, bright and sunny, and Kili, with his dark brown hair, felt he had missed a chance to have a part of his father with him, where Fili could. Still, his mother, on the rare times she spoke of their father, her One, tenderly joked that it was Kili that had his soft heart and easy smile, even if it was Fili who resembled him most. With a confused glint to his eye, Fili pushed on.

"Painting? Amad, you are not making any sense."

With a wave of her hand, sweeping over the rug before her, Dis avowed.

"Then sit and listen."

Wearily, the two brothers made their way before their mother, sitting down on the soft carpet. It reminded Kili of those evenings spent in front of Thorin's fireplace, where his uncle would smoke from his pipe and stare into the fire, spinning tales of Erebor to entrance and excite the young pair, and to also remind them, despite never having been to Erebor, nor born in its powerful walls, it was and always would be their home. A home they would one day return to. Settling into the back of the rocker, slowly swaying back and forth with a soft, thud, thud, thud of the legs, Dis began her own tale.

"There is a land, very, very far away. So very far, in fact, that a painting, a very special painting, is the only way to get from here to there. Now, this land is filled with magic. Pure, strong magic. The people there are made of it as we are made from the Stone. They breathe it, work it, live with it, as we do with our mountains."

Once again, she began playing with the little straw doll.

"A very long time ago, travellers from this distant land came to visit our ancient kin-folk. Their people were in war, a terrible, nasty, vile war, and they sought sanctuary. Our kin, seeing their suffering, freely offered it. However, they found they could not live long here. This is not their land, not their world, not their home. They got very sick, some died, and so, they had to go back to the far away land. However, for the offer of hearth, food and safety our kin had gifted them in their time of need, they gifted us a present. A painting that, should our people ever need help, would act as a bridge once more to gain aid. It came with one warning, just one. The call for aid would only ever work once, for the price of magic is high, and to call forth aid from one world would need much power, and whatever crosses, be it of this world or the other, would have to return to its rightful land eventually."

Thud, thud, thud, thud, the rocker picked up speed, as did Kili's heart.

"Now the painting, throughout the ages, became nothing but myth and legend. It was passed down from father to son, to son to grandson, lost and forgotten by most until, one day, many eons later, your uncle was given a painting from his father for his coming of age."

With wide eyes and more than a dram of excitement thrumming through his veins, Kili cut in.

"what does myth have to do with Mizi? Or this room? I thought-"

"Listen closely and you'll understand."

Once she had secured the patience of her most impulsive son, Dis calmly carried on.

"When Erebor fell, many of our treasures were lost with it, taken by the great sky wyrm. However, your uncle, long before, had given the painting to me to look after. Luck would have it that it was in one of the few chests I managed to escape with before we were forced to abandon the Lonely Mountain. We wondered for many years before settling here, in Ered Luin, then nothing but a sweeping mountain range. One day, while nostalgia was prickling at me, I took to shifting through those few things that had survived Smaug's attack. It was at the bottom of the chest I found it. The painting."

Kili noticed the way his mother's eyes darted to the painting above the cradle, but before he could open his mouth, or ponder much, his mother was back to regarding them, fiddling with straw and wool, and he was back to being swept away by the great river of his mothers story.

"I remember how your uncle took it from my grasp and looked hard, scoffing and cursing such a painting, for if it truly was what his father had told him, it had not given aid when we needed it most. In a moment of anger, while holding the painting, your uncle proclaimed he needed aid to build a new home for his people, and if these magic folk were so inclined to give it, and if they weren't cowards and vagabonds, they would answer his call. That's when the light came."

Dis leant forward in her chair, pressing closer, and her voice seemed ten times louder than what it should have been.

"Just a flash, a flare, and all of a sudden, thrown from the very oil paint itself, was a woman. Oh, dear sons, she was fierce! She spat, and bit, and fought, and she flung magic all around as if it was nothing but an axe to wield or a hammer to blow! I have, and likely never will, see such a sight again. Yes, dear ones, she was _fierce_."

Kili scooted closer.

"It was Mizi, wasn't it, amad? She was from this far off land of magic?"

Dis winked, and, here, his mother seemed young, care-free, lively and lofty, like a summer breeze.

"She was. Oh, how she hated your uncle in the beginning! She blamed him for calling her forth, you see. She called him the most outrageous names! Names that would make even the hardiest and sternest dwarrow blush! She even threatened him, should he not find her a way back to her home, she would singe his beard clean off!"

A bubble of hope burst in Kili's stomach.

"So uncle found her a way home? Is that where she is now?"

The miserable smile was back on his mothers face, and as quick as it came, the hope was gone.

"No, your uncle didn't. I do not know what changed exactly, or when, but they, your uncle and Lily, grew close. She learnt of our ways, learnt our story, learnt how we had to flee our true home in fear of dragon fire and, I believe, it softened her. She knew, soon, what it was like to miss home. And as time passed, as she settled and calmed, she built one here, with us… With your uncle. Did you know it was Lily who designed the plans for the Vale of Thrain, who helped mine these mountains so we could build homes here? She also helped set up trade between us and Bree! However, by doing so, neither she nor Thorin realised she was, in fact, fulfilling her oath of aid, to help build a home here for our people. When the oath was complete…"

Fili's voice was deep and cavernous.

"The promise of aid was fulfilled, and the magic was finished. Whatever crosses, eventually, must go back to where it belongs. That is what you said, wasn't it, mother?"

Dis's head gave a sluggish incline.

"Aye, but the damage had been done, and at the time, we did not think of the oath or the painting, not as we should have. In each other, like I with your father, Thorin and Lily both found a little bit of home that had been taken from them. In each other, they found their balance, their cornerstone, their foundation."

On a long, drawn sigh, Dis confirmed the fear that was nipping at the heels of Kili's mind.

"Lily was… Well, she was your uncles One."

Both Fili and Kili winced. Ones were special, rare, held above all but children, for they were a true scarcity in their kind. Unlike popular belief, perpetrated by Men with their own ideas of things called 'soul-mates', Ones weren't chosen, or preordained, but they were revered. When a dwarrow fell, they fell hard, true, unrepentantly. They would never love another again, not for as long as they lived. However, it was their choice who to love, as much as it was anyone else's.

Still, normally, a dwarrow would follow their One back into the Stone, should one fall before the other. In certain circumstances, as with their mother, if they had children, they would stay, for their love of their children often held them back from the Song of the Stone. In the great pillar of dwarrow civilization, built by craft, Ones and children, Ones came just above the base of craft, but below the head of children. If what Dis was saying was true, then it was a wonder Thorin was still here with them. Seeing the questions about to tumble forth from her children's lips, she beat them to the punch line.

"They married two years after their first meeting, a small affair. I have never seen your uncle smile as much as he did that day. Nor laugh as much as when he was with Lily. They were both so very happy. It wasn't long before Mahal had blessed them both with a babe and Lily came with child not but a moon cycle after their marriage. They settled on the name Harrin. A good, strong, dwarrow name."

Idly, Kili remembered one such party, a small gathering of relatives, friends, and close confidantes. He remembered the smell of ale and food, as a banquet was held, small but joyful. Him and his brother had simply been happy to feast and joke, not questioning the occasion that had brought forth the gaiety. And now this chamber made a heart-breaking sort of sense.

"The cradle… This is a nursery."

Kili said as he turned to look at the piece of furniture in question. Even as Dis answered him, he could not drag his eyes away from the dejected, tragically empty bed.

"Aye, my little archer, It was. One day, close to the child's birth, Lily was becoming ill. She suffered from headaches and nosebleeds; she was bed bound for many weeks, and she grew ever so weak. We did not know it was the painting, or the magic, we had all but forgotten it at this point, and we thought it might have been the perils of a man folk carrying a dwarrow child, for not any, that I know of, have been born from such a union. On a rather horrid day for Lily, Thorin presented her with this very room, built from his own hand, for their child. Your uncle was trying to ease her pain, cheer her up, torn between the wellbeing of his child and his One, you see, he tried his best. Thorin… Thorin commented that this, these mountains, this small household, was a good place to raise their child. He told Lily, right in this very room, that they had built a home together, a home he was proud to have."

Kili's gaze fell away from the empty cradle, back to his mother, to find her staring at what he too had been.

"As I said, what is of this land cannot stay in the other for long, and what is of the other land cannot last here forever. When Thorin called this land home, inadvertently, he had sealed the oath of aid he had requested. The promise had been fulfilled. The painting flashed once more and Lily was gone. I remember your uncle…"

Even though she kept speaking, Kili knew it weren't meant for his or his brothers ears. She was lost to her own memories, pain etched in every vowel, cast in the shade of her lips, dried in the mist of her eyes.

"I heard the crash, and so I ran... I only thought Lily had fallen… Perhaps knocked over the cradle or rocker… I found Thorin right where you were standing, right there… I remember how he fought, clawed, pounded at the painting… How he yelled and begged and scratched until his hands bled… I tried to pull him away, I did… But he would not stop, he would not listen, he simply called for Mizi as if her name could yank her back… And when he broke… The noise… The sob… I've never heard such a noise… Never… and I couldn't help… I just stood there, holding him… There was nothing… I could not…"

With a great shuddering shake, and a quivering inhale of breath, Dis pulled herself back. But, to Kili, he would never forget the sound of his mother's voice, the brokenness, the hollowed pain, the bleakness. Her tone became stronger once more, the same voice Kili had always thought of with his mother, solid, unbending.

"Lily was gone, and so, your uncle lost his One and his unborn child. Here, this room stands to the memory of that loss, of that pain, and in honour of what could have been. Of what _will_ be."

Fili cocked a brow.

"Will be?"

And Dis's smile was once more cheerful and sparkling.

"Their blood, Lily's kind, cannot survive or stay here. But neither can ours stay long in theirs."

And, for just this once, Kili was quicker than his brother.

"The babe! The babe is dwarven!"

Fili, however, was not completely bought.

"But the babe is half Lily, the child might not be forced back if they take after their mother more than Thorin. If we-"

Their mother grasped the arms of the rocker and pulled herself to a stand once more.

"Dwarrow blood is strong, Fili. The strongest there is. They'll be back, I have enough faith in Mahal to know that much. And when they come back, this room, this home, and their family will be waiting for them."

Kili bounced up, slapping his brother on the shoulder.

"Fili, we have a cousin! How old would they be, Amad?"

Fili chuckled, infected by Kili's unrelenting optimism, as Dis smoothed down her skirts.

"If time moves as it does here, which is what Lily believed, then they would have recently celebrated their eighteenth season. Still nothing but a babe."

Kili practically bounced on his feet as he and his brother tussled back and forth good naturedly.

"A babe! I can teach them how to knock an arrow!"

Fili wrapped and arm around his shoulder, jostling him as their mother watched on, a small sincere smile blossoming on her face.

"And wield a blade!"

"And curse!"

"And down a tankard without spilling a drop!"

Dis made her way over to them, gently ruffling their hair before knocking her forehead against each of theirs in turn.

"Do not get so far ahead, my sons. Now, let us leave this place in peace before-"

"Before I return?"

The trio paused at the resounding bottomless voice echoing out from the doorway. One by one, they turned to face Thorin. He was still dressed in his leathers, fur cloak pinned about his broad shoulders from the long road of travel, and his face, smeared from dirt kicked up by pony and cart, was like a blank slate of granite. Dis answered the question that, really, was no question at all.

"Thorin… The boys… They grew curious… I though it was time to…"

Kili noticed the way his uncle would not look, not really, at anything in the room. His voice too was eerily blank, a dank void of vacant emotions.

"I… Tis time they knew. Still, please… Leave. Not… Here. Not today… Leave."

Quietly but swiftly, Dis herded her sons to the doorway.

"I'll begin to dish up food, we'll leave you alone for a while. Boys, come. Thorin, come down… Come down when you are ready."

The last mystery of our little tale happened at this very moment. Kili didn't exactly know why he glanced back into the room, neither did he know why his gaze landed on the painting, hanging ill on the wall, nor why it being wonky bothered him so. His own chambers were always the messiest, and mother couldn't get him to clean even if she promised him hours of unsupervised work in his uncles forge, but it did. It really, truly did. And so, ever the impulsive dwarrow, just before his mother could push him through the door and past his motionless uncle, Kili darted out from underneath her grasping hand, dashing for the wall.

"One moment, this painting is wonky…"

He reached out to straighten it, just as Thorin and Dis's eyes grew wide, movement finally coming back to his uncle as he rushed for him, but both their cries of '_stop!' _came to late. His fingers brushed the gilded frame of the painting, and the oddest feeling shot up his arm, like lightning itching just underneath the surface of his skin, and right before he could snatch his arm back from the peculiar but painless feeling, an almighty flash of blinding blue light burst out from the painting and he became airborne as he was flung back.

Kili heard shouting, though he could not make out the words, as something crashed to the floor, splintering, and the very wind from his lungs was knocked cleanly out as he smashed into the opposite wall to the painting, just by the hearth. Hands grabbed at him, helping him stand, as he blinked rapidly, trying to wash away the white spots in his vision as he wheezed and huffed. Dis, Fili and Thorin's worried faces met his dazed gape.

"I am fine… I think. What was that? Where-"

Finally, even if the world around him swam and slid in and out of focus, his blinking gaze managed to, partially, take in the area behind his uncles rather large head, towards the painting. Only, he found it not on the wall, nor in the cradle, for the little bed had been thrown off to the side from the blast, near the corner of the room, but on the floor… In pieces. Three to be exact, big, slicing pieces of blank, grey canvas, any hint of bright colour, hill or castle completely gone.

"No… No, no, no, no…"

Thorin murmured as turned to see what had caught his nephews attention. He dashed for the pieces, long hair trailing behind him, falling to his knees by the ruins, shakily thumbing each one as he fruitlessly tried to jam them back together, still only muttering that lone word. Kili's heart plummeted. He had only meant to straighten it… Not… Oh, no… What had he done?

_Thud._

Kili jumped, as did Fili, when a strident bang rang out from the corner, from behind the wrecked mass of the cradle. Even Thorin, who had been frantically trying to fix the painting, halted when, following the thud, came an elongated groan. At that time, a hand appeared, over the rim of the cradles smashed body, thick fingers flexing as it grasped the edge. Slowly, emerging from the corner, rising from the broken wood and torn furs, was a body. A person… A dwarrowdam.

She was a short thing, even for their race, but bigger than their own mother, perhaps twelve and a half hands tall. However, she was sturdy looking, with broad shoulders, strong limbs and ready sort of stance. The kind of muscled physic that, really, only dwarrow usually bore, even if her mass was a little more compact than most. She was young too, very young by the looks of it, not a single whisker or hair on her chin or lip, making telling her age more difficult. Yet, what she lacked on her oddly delicate featured face, a face with a rather nasty scar splitting her eyebrow and forehead in two, mapped with freckles the colour of gilt, more than made up for itself on top of her head. Blasting out of a long unspiralling braid was a corpus of onyx curls, as dark as a ravens wing, thick and glossy.

She was dressed strangely too, bearing a sort of long reddish tunic, with some sort of blue cottoned trousers that seemed to be a hide of some kind. Around her waist was something familiar, a belt filled with tools, strong hammer strapped to the very side, next to a chisel, a pair of dense gloves, a sharp looking knife and… Yes, a stick of some kind, spindly and thin. As she finally came to her full height, rubbing a tired hand over her eyes, she groaned once more and promptly began cussing.

"Ah, shit! What in the bloody name of Merlin was that, Hermione? Nearly knocked my head clean off and–"

She had a brogue to her voice, a lyrical lilt, though it was gruffer than what Kili had thought it would be, intense and a bit on the harsher side. Then she was blinking at them and, words tapering off when she saw them, saw this room, Kili saw her eyes. Green, all emerald glimmering in the hot sun, jade set on fire and summer forests. She had Mizi's eyes, and Thorin's hair, and Dis's dimples, and Fili's cheekbones and there, right there, was his own narrow nose staring back at him. Thorin stumbled to a stand and the room felt heavy, hot, tension tight. Kili's uncle took a faltering step closer, and another, and another.

"Harrin? Harrin, is that you? Nathith…"

Thorin took one step too many and the dwarrowdam… Harrin, it had to be with those eyes, hair and face, jerked back, into the wall at her back.

"How do you know my name? Where am I? Who are you? Where the hell am I? I-… Do I know you?"

Before anyone could answer any of her rapid questions, her hand was delving into the pocket of her tunic, digging around, before plucking out a large silver locket. With a swipe of her thumb, the locket sprung open and her gaze flickered from the open locket to Thorin. Her hand grew unsteady, as it flopped back to her side, locket dangling from drooping fingers.

"It's you… You're… You're my father."

Thorin crossed the distance, trampling over splintered wood and shredded furs, swept the young dwarrowdam into his arms and their laughter filled the room.

* * *

**TRANSLATIONS:**

Irak'Adad- Uncle.

Mizimelûh- Jewel of all Jewels.

Amad- Mother

Adad- Father.

Nathith- Daughter.

_Sources taken from the Dwarrow Scholar and Islenthatur; all credit due to them._

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**Thank you** all to everyone who reviewed, followed and gave a favourite last chapter. It really means a lot. So, what do we think so far?Whose P.O.V do you wish to see next? And lastly, what pairings do you guys wish to see? I'm open for any, although I do currently have a little soft spot for Ori, and would love to hear your thoughts! So, hop down to that little box down there, type up a few answers, and hit send!

Just a quick warning, updates until the end of May maybe a little sporadic, as I have an end of term essay to write this week, three exams taking place in the following three weeks after that, and my photography portfolio is being marked by my professor at the very end of the month, so I have to make sure it is in tip-top condition, should I accidently end up submitting fifty photos of my cat. I am hoping to keep updates coming, but they may be stretched to weekly or even fortnightly until the dreaded month of May is over.


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